it is, maybe, a little dull but grace is a little dull Very Normal so it's fitting i think,,,anyway his reflection is just him, but frozen (ha) at the moment of murdering the guy in the arctic
so, scraggly, haunted, bearded, covered in blood, very frostbitten. also probably cold enough to give You frostbite if you could touch it. makes the area around it slightly frosty bc Cold Aura. borderline frozen corpse looking guy
grace sees himself as a terrible murderer & no better than he was at thr moment of killing & butchering a guy so it'd make sense for that to be reflected,,,but the reflection isn't mocking him in any way & it isn't violent or cruel or Bad at all, even if that's what grace thinks about himself.
i think if you talk to the reflection itself, it holds the total opposite feelings to grace. it's covered in blood, yes, but it knows the murder was for survival, out of fear, and that no, of course everything going wrong wasn't just grace's fault. it just wants him to move past it & heal & forgive himself, even if he can't undo what already happened
Written for the Secret Swap for the @fallenlondonficswap, I had the honor of writing for @violant-apologia! As soon as I saw your preferences, I had a very specific idea in mind - I hope you like it!
Featuring: Correspondence and Grand Devils
Word Count: 1981
Content Warning: Body Horror, (Implied) Death
You know what would happen should this inspiration come to a lesser human, but you are different. That is why your Muse has chosen you, is it not? Because you, and you alone, were the one bright mind among the common rabble to understand the story she was singing to you.
You intend to create your own song to sing in return.
The Veteran Privy Counsellor is looking expectantly at you, as he always does when you enter the Palace and declare your intention to start on your latest masterwork. In his hands is a glass of port, a shaky sound to underscore your conversation- not with nerves, as you’ve well learned by now, but with a dangerous thrill. And with that excitement in his voice, he asks exactly what you would expect him to.
“What’s your next project?”
You are to stage an opera, of course! But not one like that which had seen you banished to the Tomb Colonies- no, an opera of a different sort. The kind of opera the Directing Dramatist and the Comic Composer had been staging in the few theaters renovated in the wake of the fall that had not been overtaken by bohemians- the style of Offenbach in France, with laughter intended as a response, as lovers sang and dancers twirled behind them. You’ve managed to obtain your fair share of stolen scripts and stage directions from Surface runners and bribed Neathy performers in preparation for this glorious moment, especially since the carpet quarrel had broken apart the only troupe performing the likes of this here.
You had assured your Muse as much, of course. No one present in the Court of the Traitor Empress would dare miss something so unique as this.
Mad thoughts of forgiveness do not grace your mind. You are to be sent to the Tomb Colonies as soon as the curtain closes on the one-act Opera, of course- and the Counsellor’s mustache twitches in anticipation at the news- but for a much different reason than your last opera. Your inspiration is wholly, or mostly, entirely distinct from that old news. This is to be your new magnum opus. The orchestra will be legendary with the instruments they will play, with the songs their instruments will sing, and the dancers will be a draw all their own. After all, it’s not every day that a troupe of dancing devils should enter Court for the performance of the Empress’s life, with song and dance invading her silent control!
Weeks of composing, writing, editing. Auditions last well into the next month and last for hours each day, as you hand-pick only the finest of each instrument, the finest of each musician, and fill your orchestra with one of every sound you could ever need. You take no notice of the looks of the participants, even as you hear the murmurs of a rumored Rubbery Piper in your opera following you at a salon. You stifle a laugh- it appears they won’t be prepared for the sound or sight of your Rubbery Mandolinist, then, with the notes like no other they can play. Or your Clay Drummer, who makes the hearts of all who hear him beat with every pounding of his drums, beat and threaten to burst with every percussive beat. Or the Rattus Faber troupe, who could almost rival your dancers with how they dart across the keys in synchronized harmony.
And oh, your dancers.
They are as elegant as your inspiration had said they would be. Every step, every drag, every trailing leg sweeping in a brilliant shape, it is mesmerizing to watch, yellow eyes daring you to trace their pattern. The Dancers need no supervision from you, and need no practice. They know the motions, the movement, the story you intend to tell with every shape they may take, and they are eager to help you bring your masterwork to life. You had originally intended to introduce the Orchestra to the Dancers halfway through practices, for better cohesion, but the display the Devils put on for you settles it; you’ll wait until opening night to bring the musical performers together with the physical. It is easy to wave off the questions, after all- wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise of the main draw now, would we?
Your leads question you, of course, as any pair of pompous brats who’s artistry is paid for with allowances would. They question the costumes, the sections of stage they are banned from stepping foot on, the shoes- oh, how the Acclaimed Actress seems to be talented at nothing besides endless complaining about the weight of her shoes. She’s not even dancing in the opera, and she complains? No matter- she can deal with the shoes, as long as she remembers her lines and sings her number and stays in her section of the stage. You’ve promised perfection, and your Muse will not allow anything less. She will not ruin your masterwork.
The Orchestra does not disappoint. They are perfect, of course, because you have only selected the best. Those who complain about the costumes your dressmakers and tailors have crafted for them are silenced with a withering glare, as one should be when you glance in their direction, and fight no more on the issue. You’ve taken great care to ensure the outfits should not interfere with their playing, after all. Your Muse would not have it- and it would be counterintuitive to keep the Rubbery Mandolinist from their picks, or the Clay Drummer from his drums, after all.
The Piper from her Pipe. The Singer from its Song. Traitorous, to separate them. Traitorous.
Traitors.
The opening night, the audience is full. There is not an empty seat in the entire room. You can see the Traitor Empress up in her balcony box, behind the veil that encased her and the Consort, heads bowed and faces blurred. You’d sent an invite to all of her children - that must be the Captivating Princess, standing in the back, the figure inherently drawing your eyes to her and making the hair on the back of your neck rise. She’d been the only one to accept your invite - the rest had declined, as they always did. Your Muse cared not, of course, and you expected the snub. It was a shame, though. More eyes, more eyes on your masterwork, a bigger audience.
The Veteran Privy Counselor ambushes you backstage, with a trivial issue of budget, and one of the Rubbery Mandolinist’s costumes catching on fire, but you wave him off with a wave of the hand and a roll of your eyes, your eyes. Seems a dressmaker had overstated their competency with the stitch pattern you’d provided for the inside of the Mandolinist’s clothing, and had failed you. Had failed your production. Of course this would happen.
Your Muse.
A single Mandolinist missing from the audience wouldn't ruin your opera. Your Orchestra will still sound, will it not? Nothing will be off, to the untrained ears of the audience. Nothing will be off, to the Traitors on the stage. Nothing. Nothing! No one will notice, aside from you. And what was the Mandolinist’s worth, even?
Immense, you know. Immense.
But no more than any others, you’re sure. No more special than the rest of the Orchestra. No more. No more.
The Dancers talk amongst themselves, in costumes provided on their own, and share glances at the Leads. The Acclaimed Actress is complaining again. Again. Her costar stands uselessly to the side, as he always does, nodding at her complaints, nodding at your refusal, nodding like there is nothing more he can do. You have half a mind to strangle him, but the Unassuming Understudy found himself in the Tomb Colonies two days ago, and had yet to make his way back, and you doubt the man standing before you had the brains required to return from the Boatman with any expediency.
No, for the sake of the show, you must keep him. And the Actress. And you must deal with an Orchestra playing one Mandolinist shy, one man down, one less than its grandeur was at its unsung height. Something pulls a laugh from within you - you’d have to ask your muse if a Mandolinist fell first then, too.
Your Muse isn’t in the audience. It is almost showtime.
The Veteran Privy Counsellor finds you again, but you ignore him. You ignore him, and the Actress, and the Dancers, and you look to the curtains and think about your Orchestra. The costumes, perfect, sigil-stitched with perfect thread that should just hold out long enough on the flames for this one production. The Mandolinist was unlucky. The Mandolinist was just unlucky.
Your Muse will be proud, you’re sure.
You step into the wings as the time comes, and call for the Leads to take their place. You do not have to call for the Dancers to take theirs. You do not have to call for the Orchestra to play their first notes. You do nothing more than step aside, step away, as the curtains rise, and when the Veteran Privy Counsellor corners you moments later, you simply offer him a glass of port, and a smile.
His glass drops when the Acclaimed Actress catches sight of the Orchestra, and screams. Your heart stops - too early, too early, and is there anything you can do? Can you stop it? This was meant to be the climax! The Leads, the Lovers, they weren’t supposed to be screaming until the Traitor Dancers, the rebels they were a part of, were to announcing the beheadings. You’d planned it so well - the audience, standing in for the royals that were never seen, motions to the Traitor Empress, to the Orchestra, to-
You wave him away as the Actor joins in with a sound that could rip flesh from bone, sipping on the deep yellow honey in your own glass as the Traitor Dancers stop in their step, and fill the stage with buzzing. You don’t dare to look - if anything went wrong in the sigil-stitching again, if a misplaced thread set the Rattus Faber troupe into anything but a temporary abomination of insectoid creatures vying for the stolen skin of the Devils, then this would be a failure in every way, in every way, and in every way. Then it would be worth nothing. Your Muse, your Muse-
No, not nothing.
You’d set the mirror aside just before the Dancers arrived. You’d found the linking mirror almost a year ago, a shortcut to your Muse. A direct line to the Parabolan prison where your Muse lay, poised like a scorpion in wait and unable to break from her shackles. You know not what she played, but you could hear the echoes of it in her body, when she invaded your dreams. You understood so little - but a story she told you, a story you kept.
Traitors. Rebellion. Correspondence.
You had brought her here, to witness it from this mirror. To hear the story she told you, pumping knowledge like poison into your veins.
You were to give her a better ending to her story. The Ones-Like-Princes, crawling from the Orchestra Pit, and tearing the Traitor Dances into nothing. The Leads, unspared in your frantic rewrites as the Actress complained of the lead to keep her safe from the Correspondence sigils traced into the stage by the Dancers, as she earned her fate with the rest of those who dared to think themselves worthy of overthrowing the Prince’s rule.
You were meant to show her what could still be.
No matter. No matter!
You taste honey on your lips, and see a thousand eyes staring back, see a body poised, poised, see your Muse.
It’s better this way, isn’t it? She must agree, must understand. It was better this way! Not just a better ending, a better everything! No rebellion to even begin. No chance something so horrible could ever happen again.
She wouldn’t hate you.
She can’t hate you.
She is your Muse, and you have done right by her.
She won't hurt you.
You step into the mirror, as the Veteran Privy Counsellor storms into the corner closet you’d hidden yourself in, and close the curtain on your Masterwork.
🎲 for a kiss with the apologist? (refs in pinned (mr stones will NOT be happy))
(7 = Romantic Kiss)
Mr Stones surely won't need to know of a fleeting evening burning candles with someone so strange, think nothing of it, or how it held your hand, six fingers wrapped around your five. It leaves you with a poem in a tongue you can't quite decypher, and a small ivory tusk carved into a mouse.
[banana mania: what thing from the surface would they give an arm and leg for (hopefully not literally)?
Had to think about this one for a while. I think Oswald misses specific Surface foods and being able to go to the beach without worrying about Drownies and Zee creatures coming to get him... But most of all I think he misses the stars.
atomic tangerine: if you had to choose a neathbow color to associate them with, which would it be and why?
Apocyan! Partially because one of the most important things to him post-Nemesis is preserving his father's memory (leaving a plate out for him during holiday dinners, lighting candles on the anniversary of his death/birthday etc.). Plus it would serve as a nice contrast to Howard's irrigo and how he used it to forget about the loved one he lost. Apocyan being the colour of the Zee's waves works out too, since Oswald does have a personal connection to the coast from his childhood and he loves zailing.]
3, Past: Describe their family. Who raised them, and who had the most impact on them? Did they have any siblings? Who were they closest to? What were the family dynamics like?
Morgan's an only child, raised VERY close to their Father, charmed by all the tales of faraway places and exotic countries.
The rules were always strict as Morgan Senior was a high ranked captain in the Admiralty, but Morgan Jr. never really cared. Their Mother was a quiet one, fond of painting and quilting. She was always loving and caringin a warm, slightly distant way. They remember her fondly but in a sort of fog, as she was an indefinite, ever presence entity.
They were close friends through all the childhood and early teenage years, when Morgan got signed up in the navy to follow in the footsteps of their Father.
Their parents were some kind of lovey dovey couple, whenever it happened that they got some time to spend together. Morgan Senior was so proud that his wife was a renown name in the artists scene.
7, Present: Do they have a partner? How did they meet, and what’s their relationship like now?
they have yes! Theyr're married to hiram Hargrave (@/esteemed-excellency)
They met shortly after the Fall and after Morgan's Father disappeared.
They both were trying to rebuild their lives and truly bonded some time after, after years of smuggling, risky expeditions and running from the Constables.
Then things got complicated and hurtful when the Seven Against Nidha recruited Morgan and they were Lost in the Light for roughly 10 years... Now they sort of are a stable/unhinged couple (actually a polycule but not everyone involved thinks of themselves in at all times)
10, Future: How do they want to be remembered after they die?
Softly as a half remembered dream, with a tinge of pain like consumkinga single drop of Red honey. Melancholy, like something you were so used to and suddenly is not there but left you better than you were.
Like an old poem that gave you shivers in your young days and lingers in the back of your mind, rocks you to sleep at night.
i cannot remember for the life of me but has neon future twitch (character) on twitch (streaming platform) ever been considered
YES i do not remember why or how it came up but it absolutely did
the only thing i remember is the conclusion that twitch (the character) would be very swiftly banned from twitch (the streaming platform) but i don't remember the reason. i stand by it anyway. do not let them on the internet
desire: What’s one thing your OC wants more than anything in the world? Are they open with that desire? Why or why not? What would they do to fulfill it?
this question genuinely stumped me for so long because oh my god what does grace want? this poor guy is literally just surviving day to day i don't think he knows what he wants
i think. grace wants to go home. he wants to rest, & have some peace. grace wants to help people where he can
that's it, that's all.
but he doesn't know what home means for him,,,he can't go back to anything he knew before. he tried going back to the navy, and that didn't go. great. (that goddamn dawn machine)
he's not open about it, really (although. i'm sure anyone can tell it's what he needs, he looks so tired) because he feels selfish about it-he doesn't deserve to rest, surely. and a promising young navy officer-not that that applies to him much anymore-needs bigger goals than "have some peace." so he won't really do much to reach it, either.
so he's just kind of drifting. doing whatever he can, for other people, mostly.
but it does get better, i promise! it takes a long time but it does. he learns that home doesn't always mean a place you go back to at the end of the day-sometimes home can be people instead. and that he can help people without sacrificing his own wellbeing in the process.
he realises he's allowed to be content-maybe even happy, someday
fear: What is your OC’s greatest fear? What do they do when confronted with it? Are they open with their fear, or do they hide it away?
oooh. there's a few, but i think the deep-rooted, more Psychological one is: twitch is afraid of dying for good, running out of time, before they get to do anything or be anyone
they lost half of their life to the cage gardens. they didn't have a childhood, a time to figure themselves out, space to think about what to do-they came into existence halfway into adulthood.
people are less willing to look past your mistakes when you, seemingly, should have 40 years of life experience. but they...don't. twitch has existed for 5 years or so. and they want a full lifespan. it's why they're so adamant on immortality!
if faced with their own mortality-real, mortality, not visiting the boatman and coming back-they will freak out (second sacristan fear is real). and they will freak out at anyone who raises an eyebrow at their immortality goals, too but they could never explain why.
they're open about wanting immortality, but not why, and not the fear itself. if you ask them why they'd say they just wanna fuck around & have fun for longer! but no, they're terrified of running out of time.
and surely they owe it to the people whos memories they have, to keep them alive as long as possible?
